


tumble dry low

by brawlite



Series: liminal spaces [2]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Crushes, Food, Honestly I Just Wanted To Use That Tag, Laundromat - Freeform, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Secret Identities, a series of meet-cutes i guess, an excuse to write these two talking in a quiet neon-lit space, andrew garfield is my spider-man but feel free to imagine him however your heart desires, domestic fluff actually, liminal spaces, peter parker seeing wade wilson out of his element, that's what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 04:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12268707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: One AM in a deserted, neon-lit laundromat calledLaundropaloozais not exactly when and where Peter thought he'd run face-first into Wade Wilson again, but it is.





	tumble dry low

_Laundropalooza_ is Peter’s favorite 24/7 laundromat. It’s almost always deserted, is lit almost entirely by the neon-lights in the windows and three flickering-halogen lights, and at one in the morning it always feels strangely out of time, like another reality completely. They also have a couple pictures of Spider-man taped to the window, which doesn’t hurt when it comes to buying his favor. Anyway -- Laundropalooza is his favorite.

Peter had been enjoying a quiet moment of solitude in Laundropalooza, eyes closed and headphones on, sitting cross-legged on top of one of the washers.

“ _ **Petey**_?!”

The voice is muffled through his headphones, but underneath the beat of his music, it’s there.

Peter’s eyes snap open, startled. His spidey-sense hadn’t even alerted him to the jingle of the bell above the door. He shouldn’t be surprised, but he always is, when his eyes settle on none other than Deadpool.

“Wade?” It takes him a beat too long to realize that his mask is off, that his face is bare and Wade is talking to none other than Peter Parker -- not Spider-man. Ugh, not again.

“Baby boy! Fancy seeing you here, of all places. How _intimate_ , us washing our delicates at the same time.” Wade gasps. “ _Laundromat - freeform,_ ” he says. Peter doesn’t know what he means, but he also doesn’t really want to ask.

Wade is still wearing his mask, but otherwise he’s dressed in pink unicorn pajama bottoms and a grey hoodie. He’s got an overflowing sack of laundry over his shoulder, which makes him look like a _really strange_ Santa Claus. Somehow, bathed in the pink and blue of the neon lights, he looks perfect and soft. Weirdly tangible in a strange sort of way. Or maybe that’s the magic of one AM talking. Yeah, that’s it.

“This is my favorite laundromat,” Peter says, because early-mornings and entire days fueled only by cheap ramen don’t leave him particularly intelligent in terms of conversation.

It takes him a moment to remember that never texted Wade. Or rather, _Peter_ never texted Wade. Because Spider-man has certainly texted Deadpool since then, and isn’t _that_ just complicated enough to tie his brain in knots?

Deadpool doesn’t seem deterred, though. “Mine too! Is it the punny name, the fact that it’s always deserted, the weird liminal-space of it, or the fact that no one ever asks about the blood stains on your clothes?” Wade hums, after giving Peter a once over. “Not that you’d have that problem.”

Peter doesn’t know if that’s sarcasm or not. He’s still not exactly sure where Wade stands on the Peter vs. Spider-man conundrum. He had been almost convinced that Wade had figured him out that one night on the rooftop, but then Deadpool never brought up Peter again. Not even once. So -- Peter isn’t sure if Wade was just hopeful, or suspicious, or just talking out of his ass like usual.

“It’s usually pretty quiet,” Peter says. He’s not as quick as usual, too tired for his normal Wade-banter. Peter’s only ever seen a few other people at _Laundropalooza_ , and they’ve all gone about their business like ghosts, like ships passing in the night. It had all been a very pleasant kind of surreal. Seeing Deadpool here is -- a different kind of pleasant surreal. Not altogether unwelcome, though.

“I will be quiet like _myshka_ ,” Deadpool says, in a poor approximation of a Russian accent, for whatever reason. Maybe he’s been hanging out with the X-Men again. He seems to love and also hate doing that.

“Are you ever quiet like _myshka_?” Peter asks, watching Wade throw his suits into one washer, regular clothes into two others. He’s oddly meticulous. Peter wouldn’t have thought Wade would separate his laundry at all -- he just doesn’t seem like that kind of guy.

“I can be quiet,” Wade says. “If you say _pretty please_ and work real hard for it.” Wade drops his voice into something low and sultry, and Peter tries to pretend his stomach doesn’t flip a little at that. He’s been really trying his best to ignore this newfound attraction to the assassin. It’s childish and dumb and it makes life _complicated_. Peter isn’t in high school any more -- he shouldn’t have to deal with crushes. “I’m good at keeping quiet when my mouth is otherwise occupied.”

Wade waves a hand in the air after a moment, before Peter even gets a chance to respond. “But I get the feeling you don’t think of me that way, baby boy. And that’s okay. You can’t win ‘em all.”

There’s something about the resigned tone of Wade’s words that makes Peter hesitate. It’s not at all the fact that he maybe is a little interested, or that he doesn’t want Wade to _stop_ barking up this tree he’s found himself under. It’s not like he would be disappointed if Wade stopped, or anything. It’s not that at all.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” he hears himself say.

Peter gets the impression Wade is raising his eyebrows under his mask, looking at Peter with an expression that Peter can’t read. Then, he goes back to putting detergent into the washing machine. “I said _call me maybe_ , baby. Just because I paid for our date doesn’t mean you were obligated to call. We covered this last time.”

It wasn’t really a date -- but maybe it was. Sometimes, it keeps Peter up at night, even though it shouldn’t.

Now, Wade is humming the tune of _Call Me Maybe_ and bopping around next to his washing machines. Peter’s headphones are thrumming away from where they’re resting on his neck, tinny beats still audible just underneath his ears. It’s a cute moment, he thinks. Soft and rare. It fill him with a buoyant mood, bubbly, like cotton candy and clouds.

“ _Hey, I just met you_ ,” Peter literally cannot stop himself from singing along with Wade (however badly on both their parts), “ _and this is **craaazy.**_ ” It’s the song, he thinks. It’s magical -- he can’t escape the pull of it.

Deadpool gasps, turning to Peter with joy in his eyes (in his mask). He slaps his hands to his chest, like his heart is wounded, but in a good way. Peter doesn’t know where Deadpool gets all his childish joy from, his perpetual silliness. For someone who gets hurt so often, who so frequently falls into maudlin moods, he’s awfully chipper when he’s around Peter.

“ _You took your time with the call, I took no time with the fall,_ ” Wade sings, palming an invisible microphone. Right now, shuffling around an empty laundromat in socks and pajama pants, he seems so normal. Carefree. “ _You gave me nothing at all,_ ” Deadpool continues, sidling up to Peter’s washer. Peter’s music is still trucking away, counter to the beat of Deadpool’s singing and dancing. But it doesn’t matter. If anything, it adds to the moment, the experience. “ _And still you’re in my way._ ” On the last line of the verse, Wade dramatically sprawls himself out on the empty space of the washer in front of Peter’s crossed legs.

Wade looks up. Peter looks down.

He can literally feel himself blushing. He’s not even sure why -- he just knows it’s not a good look on him, which does literally nothing for the situation.

Deadpool, however, seems to think otherwise. He gasps. “Ah, so cute! Look at you, your ears are even turning red. _So kawaii_!”

Which only really succeeds in making Peter’s ears turn more red. Peter uncrosses his legs and nudges Wade with his foot. He’s _so close_. If only he’d back up a bit and stop singing about crushes, maybe Peter wouldn’t be blushing.

“You know what I think?” Wade asks. Peter’s toe is pushing at his shoulder, but Wade isn’t budging.

“What?” Peter sounds choked. He can’t stop the panicked fluttering in his chest.

“I think I’m growing on you,” Wade says. “Like a mold. Or a lichen.”

Peter has a lot of mold in his bathroom. “I don’t think that’s always necessarily a good thing.” But he can’t deny that Wade is _right_. Peter is absolutely screwed: Deadpool _has_ grown on him, an awful lot. But he’s not about to tell Wade that.

“Sometimes it is,” Wade says. “Like with blue cheese. Or penicillin.”

“I’m allergic to penicillin.” Or at least he was. Peter probably isn’t allergic to anything, anymore. At least he doesn’t think he’s going to be getting any ear-infections any time soon.

“Are you hungry?” Wade asks, abruptly. He stands himself up, getting out of Peter’s space once again. Like he’s overstayed his welcome. Peter -- doesn’t really want him to move away, even though he’s been pushing him with his feet.

But Peter’s stomach feels empty. Cheapo ramen just doesn’t cut it when you’re a working college student, much less when you’re a working college student _and_ a superhero. “Sure, I guess.” He doesn’t want to say he’s always hungry, but he thinks it.

“I’ll be back,” Wade says, and slides across the laundromat in his stocking feet. He’s out the door in seconds before Peter can object.

“Annnnd you forgot your shoes,” Peter says to the empty laundromat, looking down at what looks like slippers that match Wade’s pajamas.

Peter slides his headphones back over his ears and camps out for a while. Eventually, he stretches out on top of the row of washing machines, hands behind his head. He doesn’t close his eyes; he just stares at the popcorn ceiling like it contains all the mysteries of the universe. At one AM, it kind of seems like it does.

This time, he doesn’t hear the bell above the door ring, but he does notice the shift in the shadows on the ceiling. It’s only moments before Deadpool’s mask is right above Peter’s own. At least Peter isn’t surprised. “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” Wade sing-songs at him. His face is replaced with a bag of heavenly-smelling food. “My favorite Tex-Mex place is down the block. Peter knows which one it is, because it’s one of his favorites, too. “Chimichangas for all, and for all a good night.”

Peter digs in his pocket and holds a crumpled ten dollar bill out to Wade. Wade just shoves it back at him. “Petey, I don’t need your money. Just help me eat all this delicious food I bought.”

“This isn’t a date,” he warns, slipping his headphones back down around his neck. Again, he doesn’t bother to turn them off. He kind of likes the tinny background music.

“No, it’s not,” Wade says. He starts unwrapping a chimichanga, slides up his mask half-way, and starts chowing down. It’s impressive. Wade eats like he’s in a cartoon. Just -- opens the hatch and down it goes.

Feeling mollified by Wade’s assurance that this isn’t a date -- it’d be a terrible idea if it _was,_ right? -- Peter sits up and starts in on his own food.

Eventually, Wade hops up on the washer next to Peter’s, getting comfy. “You’d tell me if it became one, though, right?” Wade asks with his mouth full.

“What?”

“If this became a date. -- I get this, like, sneaking suspicion that you wouldn’t tell me if this became a date. Like I’d just be here all unawares, and you’d be mentally freaking out, for whatever reason, realizing that this somehow turned out to be the cutest date ever.” Wade takes another bite, finishing off his first chimichanga, then starting in on another. “Why is that?”

Peter feels -- weirdly off balance. “Why is what?”

“Look, kiddo. I’m pretty good at reading people, okay? It’s my job. And you’re not _not_ interested. Don’t give me that look -- no wait, do, I love that look. Skeptical is a good look on you: it’s hot, keep it. I thought you weren’t interested, when you didn’t call, but -- I think maybe you are. Even just a little bit. But -- there’s clearly something keeping you from enjoying this meet-cute happening right here, right now. So, what is it? Is it my face?” Wade points to his chin, pock-marked and burned. “That’s a pretty decent reason, I’ll give you that one.”

“It’s not your face,” Peter says, only realising afterward that, by answering, he totally just agreed to Wade’s theory that there’s something keeping him from really enjoying this. Not that he’s just...not interested. Because -- dear god, he is. It’s okay. He’s accepted it.

“Well, that’s a first.” Like he doesn’t believe Peter at all.

“It’s just -- complicated, Wade.”

“Life is complicated, baby boy.”

It is. But Peter’s life is _really_ complicated. A lot of those complications have been factored in, dealt with. Wade is one of those complications that hasn’t. He is an inconsistent variable that Peter has _no idea_ what to do with, no idea how to balance out.

“If this was a date,” Peter says carefully, “which it _isn’t…_ ”

Deadpool nods slowly in agreement. Like if he moves too fast or says the wrong thing, Peter will spook. “Alright, which it’s not,” Wade says. The moment feels unnecessarily tense. Why did Wade have to call him on his bullshit?

“...It’d be kinda lame, wouldn’t it?” Peter says, finally.

Wade gasps, offended. “Excuse _you_ , Petey. This is like the cutest date, ever. A surprise date. With chimichangas. Lit by neon, with the dulcet sounds of washing machines as a serenade. I’m not sure what more you could ask for.”

“You’re wearing _pajamas_ ,” Peter says. Even though it’s kind of endearing and he doesn’t want Wade to change.

“That makes it _even better_.”

Peter just laughs. The tension has bled out between them, a little bit.

Wade reaches over and brushes a thumb over Peter’s chin. Peter isn’t sure if the gesture is out of affection, or if he had food on his face, and Wade isn’t helpful enough to clarify. But he is grinning. “Okay, Casanova,” Wade says, challenging. “Tell me what a better date would be.”

Peter doesn’t really go on dates. But Wade doesn’t need to know that. Peter already judges himself enough for like five people -- he doesn’t need Deadpool judging him too. “Um,” he manages, eloquently. “Like, watching the sunset or something?” That’s a date-thing, right?

“Sun’s already set, baby. We could kill some time and watch the sunrise together, though. I know a great spot.”

“It’s just a hypothetical.”

Peter’s washing dings. He slides off his machine and transfers his clothing into the dryer across the way. Deadpool just watches, happily munching away on his food. Peter feels happier now, fuller. Like he can think again, even though it’s late (or early).

“You’re pretty cut,” Wade remarks, peering down at Peter from his perch on the washing machine. “Do you work out?”

Peter can’t help the nervous laugh. “I guess?”

Wade scarfs down the rest of his chimichanga and hops off the washer. He advances on Peter, stalking forward like a cat. Slow and steady, unnervingly predatory. It’s kinda hot, Peter thinks, once Wade’s got him backed against the now-started dryer. Like Peter’s cornered, but not at all in danger -- it’s kind of exhilarating. “It’s hard to tell under the hoodies you wear,” Wade runs his fingers up Peter’s arm, tracing the muscles there, just under his sweatshirt. “But you’re totally jacked.”

“I wouldn’t say that I’m _jacked_ ,” Peter says, swallowing. He feels warm. Wade is so close. His mask is still turned up, so Peter can watch the way his lips tick up in a smirk.

“Well, maybe not _jacked_. But damn, you’ve got some muscles on you, Petey. I bet you have a six pack.”

Peter shrugs a little. He does, kinda. But it’s not as defined as Wade’s. And boy howdy, has he seen Wade’s.

“Tell me the truth, Petey,” Wade says. He’s only inches away from Peter’s face. “Tell me you aren’t interested.”

Well, now Wade is just asking Peter to _lie_. He’s so close that Peter can feel the warmth of his body, bracketing Peter in against the rocking machine. It was one thing, fudging the truth, but now Wade is just straight up asking him to lie to his face. It’s a smart move, actually. Mad respect. “You know I can’t do that,” he says.

Peter expects Wade to step back, to fist pump into the air, to lapse back into joviality -- but he doesn’t. Wade rests his hands on either side of Peter’s body, effectively bracketing him in. “Yeah?” Wade says. “And why’s that?”

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Peter says, swallowing.

“So, you _are_ interested.”

 _Maybe_ , Peter thinks. It comes out as: “ _yeah_.” Peter breathes out the word. His gaze drops to Wade’s lips. He can’t help it -- they’re _right there_.

Wade hums. “But,” he says. “Something’s stopping you from climbing this hunk of Grade-A, Grass-Fed Man-Meat like a tree. Do we need to do the will-they-won’t-they thing for another fifteen-thousand words, or the show-runners will cancel? Is that it?”

Peter can’t help but laugh. Sometimes, he has no idea what Wade’s saying, but he still always makes a weird amount of sense. Peter laughs so hard (he blames nervous energy) that he ends up with his forehead resting on Wade’s shoulder, just because the guy is so close. Wade smells weirdly good.

Deadpool freezes for moment, like he didn’t think Peter would actually touch him. Then, he carefully puts a hand on the back of Peter’s neck. When he speaks, he sounds reverent. “You -- are adorable. Full stop. Not just hot, but so cute too. Oh my god,” Wade whispers.

Peter huffs out a laugh. He’s not any of those things. But he doesn’t mind Wade having the wrong impression right now.

“A brown-eyed wonder,” Wade says, as hooks a finger under Peter’s chin and lifts his head back up and off his shoulder so that they can look at each other again. If Peter thought he was red before, he’s _definitely_ beet red now. Probably about the color of Deadpool’s suit, he’d wager. “See, I’ve kinda got this thing for brown-eyed guys,” Wade says, while staring into Peter’s eyes.

“Yeah?” Peter says, feeling like the entirety of the English language is totally out of his reach right now. Just -- miles away. Deadpool has him tongue-tied and flustered, his heart beating too-fast in his chest.

“Yeah, it’s weird,” Wade says.

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Peter hears himself say.

“So fiesty. I love it.” Wade reaches up and brushes a finger over Peter’s lower lip. His hands are bare, ungloved. His skin is surprisingly soft.

One of Wade’s washing machines dings. Then, another one dings. Then, the last one’s timer goes off, a long and annoying buzzer that does a really great job of dragging Peter right back into the reality of the present moment.

“Saved by the bell, huh?” Wade says with a grin. He really has a great smile, Peter thinks, as Wade pushes himself back from where he’s wrangled Peter in. Like nothing just happened at all. Peter’s heart is pounding, but not so much in a horrifically unpleasant way. More so in the way it does right before he’s about to jump off a building. Excited. Exhilarated. Reckless.

Peter doesn’t really move. He just leans against his shaking dryer and watches Wade shuffle his clothes from machine to machine. He dries his suits on delicate: tumble dry with low heat. It’s such a strange glimpse of a Wade Wilson Peter has never seen before. Meticulous and careful. It’s a nice counterpoint to the Wade that Peter sees in battle: loud, foolhardy, and carefree. Peter feels a bit greedy for it, like he’s been given a glimpse behind the curtain and he wants to see more.

The moment slides away from him, though. Soon, Wade is laughing and eating another chimichanga and acting like he didn’t just back Peter against a dryer and get awful close to kissing him.

Or maybe it was Peter who got awful close to kissing Wade.

It’s at least two AM, Peter thinks. He wonders if his mind is playing tricks on him. If maybe he dreamed the whole thing. If that short and not-quite-sweet moment was just a product of his own mind. When he thinks of it, he feels dizzy. It feels just as hazy as the light does now, weird and neon in the middle of a deserted laundromat with no else around.

He wants another moment, just like it. Peter knows it’s greedy, that you don’t just get to choose those things. That sweet and soft moments aren’t created at will, by demand or need or desire. They just _happen_. Like Peter finding Wade in everyday places. Like quiet moments in deserted laundromats or weird fusion restaurants. They are happenstance. Random.

But Peter wants another. And he’s never been totally good at self-restraint.

“Hey Wade?” Peter says.

“ _Eayh_?” Wade answers, mouth full of food. He swallows. “ _¿Que paso,_ baby boy _?_ ”

Peter swallows. He shouldn’t -- he knows he shouldn’t. It would make life complicated. It would be a dangerous call. It would be _really dumb_. But maybe Peter is tired of playing it safe. Maybe he’s getting a little foolhardy and carefree, too.

“If we were going to watch the sunrise, where exactly would we do it from?”

This time, Deadpool _does_ do a fist pump into the air.

**Author's Note:**

> taking a break from writing trash and writing these two dumb and clueless losers instead.
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined.


End file.
